The Birth and Untimely Demise of Dean's First Suit
by CaffieneKitty
Summary: There's a time in nearly every boy's life when he gets his first suit... and a time in a few boys' lives where that suit lasts less than a day. Dean is 21 and Sam is 17.


**Characters:** Sam (17), Dean (21) and John  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the boys, a suit, or a single sun-dried tomato.  
**Warnings:** None? Probably some silliness? A bit of logic-bending for a sight-gag or two?  
**Summary:** There's a time in nearly every boy's life when he gets his first suit... and a time in a few boy's lives where that suit lasts less than a day. Dean is 21 and Sam is 17.  
**A/N:** This is a Pay It Forward fic for LJ User Weesta. Back in August, she asked for: _A pre-Stanford (but late teen Sam) fic with the three Winchesters in which John and Sam are not fighting. Sam is not sullen, pouting, resentful or picking a fight._ Well, he isn't doing any of those things, but he is being a brotherly brat. Also, please note, I have never bought, nor watched being fitted, a suit. But I did look it up online. Apologies for inaccuracies and customer service gaffes in the process. Also, one very small incidental part of this has been lightly Kripke'd.

-  
**The Birth (and Untimely Demise) of Dean's First Suit**  
by CaffieneKitty  
-

Something was going on with the latest case. John had been at the hotel going over the research for most of a week. The only connection between twelve people with sudden freak household accidents in the past year was that they had all been working in the local government offices for at least a few weeks before calamity befell them.

The Winchesters had even started eating dinner together as a family in the hotel room. Well, in the sense that food arrived, was put in the center of the table away from the research, and all three helped themselves at the same time. John made and scratched out diagrams, muttering. Sam hid inside one textbook or another, studying for mid-terms that were still a month away. Dean just ate dinner with his family.

Until one night... "Alright!" John said, slapping his hand on the table. Sam and Dean jumped. "That's it!"

"Uh... What's it, Dad?" said Sam, pizza slice in hand, stalled and drooping en route to his mouth.

"Caleb's laid up with a busted leg, Pastor Jim can't lie worth a damn, and Bobby looks about as government as the Unabomber, and he's got his own gig out west right now anyway. But _you_, Dean," he said, pointing at Dean with a glint in his eye. "_You_ look old enough now to be a field trainee in the FBI."

Sam's pizza slipped from his grip and splatted against the table, narrowly missing his Civics textbook. Dean half-grinned, not sure how to react. "I, uh, what?"

"That's it, it's settled." John stuffed the crust of his pizza into his mouth. "Tomorrow first thing, Dean, you and I are going into town, and you are getting a suit."

"Uhhhh... okay? I mean yes. Yes, sir," said Dean, pizza dangling from his fingers as he watched John push away from the table.

Sam snorted and grinned. "You in a suit?"

Dean swatted his brother's arm, watching John stretch as he headed into the suite's other room to bed. "Whatever, dude. It's for a gig."

"You realize there's no way that I'm _not_ coming along to watch this."

"It's just a suit, Sammy," said Dean, taking a bite of pizza. "It'f not a freaging rock confert."

Sam just grinned.

-

"You need to look as official as possible, so we're going all out on this one." John looked at Dean over the roof of the Impala. "You're about done growing. It should last you a while." John headed into the shop.

Sam snorted as he unfolded from the back seat.

"Shaddap," said Dean, reaching up to cuff his little brother in the back of the head, before they both trailed into the shop after John.

Both boys got to the door as John snapped a gold-toned credit card down onto the counter. "Good morning," he rumbled.

A narrow little man who looked like he'd been hung by his nose to dry scurried over at the sound of plastic hitting the glass countertop. "And what can we do for you today Mister..." He scrutinized the name inscribed on the card. "Ann-sick?" he ventured.

"Ahn-_seese_." John corrected.

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean grinned. Dad's philosophy on picking obscure names didn't appeal to Dean personally, but he understood it. With a common name, people are going to look closer at your face so they can tell you from the fifty other Joe Smiths that walk through the door. An obscure name was memorable without needing to look at anyone's face, with the added bonus of being more believable if you corrected people's pronunciation of it.

Dean's name-picking philosophy was that a famous name was easier to remember, and anyone who actually knew it would get distracted by the association with a rock group or movie or whatever. And you didn't get stuck with names like-

"Conroy Ancic. This is my son Ludlow," he said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. Sam snickered surreptitiously. "We're here to get a suit for him. Today."

"There _is_ a fifteen percent surcharge on rush orders."

"Did I ask?" said John in a bored tone.

"...No..." The man perked up. "And your other son...?"

Sam waved from the back of the entourage. "Oh, don't mind me, I'm just a spectator. Is this all right-?" He held up a bottle of soda.

The tailor glanced from the dark swirling liquid to the gold card on his counter. "Yes, of course." He ushered the three Winchesters into the store.

-

"Just a plain dark suit," John reiterated for the tenth time. "Navy blue."

"But he's a young man, he should have a young, fresh-looking suit. Something with a bit of pizzazz, not," the man gestured at Dean, "sepultural."

Dean, standing in the middle of the room in his jeans and a t-shirt, crossed and uncrossed his arms like he wasn't sure what to do with them. Sam had commandeered a vantage point from a chair beside the change room, and was sipping his soda carefully.

"I'm not paying you for _pizzazz_," John said, "I'm paying you for a dark blue suit, white shirt and serious tie."

"Well, yes," the tailor wheedled, "but _so_ much can be done with the cut-"

"Just a plain suit. No funny collars, no flaps in the back." John growled. "No _pizzazz_."

"A vent in the back is not pizzazz, sir. It's standard on suit jackets." The man crossed the store to pick a different jacket, muttering, "-unless of course you're stuck in the mid-eighties," as he passed Sam and Dean.

Dean glared after the tailor, and Sam choked on his soda.

"Something wrong, Sam?" asked John.

"No, nothing, sorry."

"Not catching a cold at that school, are you?"

"No sir." Sam grinned.

"Good."

-

A while later, Dean emerged from the change room in a navy blue suit to be stared at by John and the tailor.

"Turn around, please?" the tailor asked, making a pirouette gesture.

Dean rotated in place, ignoring the snort from Sam's direction.

John frowned. "Sleeves are too long."

"Of course it will need a few adjustments," the tailor demurred.

"How's it across the shoulders, Dean?"

"It's fine, Dad," said Dean, standing stiffly.

John looked significantly at his son. "You're gonna need some range of movement there. Move your arms around."

Dean swung his arms back and forth, in and out of a firing stance without being obvious that was what he was checking. He continued to ignore Sam who had moved behind John and the tailor at an angle where he couldn't be seen in the mirrors, and was flapping his elbows chicken-dance style.

"Shoulders are fine, Dad," Dean said, dropping his arms to his sides and shooting a glare at Sam, who grinned.

"Good."

"It is a decent fit," admitted the tailor, stepping over to Dean. "The sides shouldn't even need any more tapering. The pants though..."

The tailor stuffed three fingers into the waistband of Dean's pants and pulled, checking the slack in the waistband like it was a dog's collar.

"Hey! Watch where you're sticking those fingers, Chuckles!" Dean squawked, startled, and received a distracted cuff upside the head from John while the tailor wasn't looking.

"Waist in an inch, Janice." The tailor called over his shoulder.

A heap of blonde hair visible over a wall divider bobbed.

"Alright, let's see those sleeves..." The tailor busied himself at Dean's wrists with a chalk pencil and pins.

John checked his watch. "Do you have a phone I could use?"

"Yes, of course. Janice? An inch off the sleeves, and please show Mr. Ancic the phone?"

The blonde hair rose, bringing Janice with it, and John followed her to a back office, disappearing from the fitting room floor.

"Now..." The tailor looked appraisingly at Dean. "The jacket hangs well, but I'm still not too certain about the pants."

Dean looked down at himself. "What's wrong with 'em?"

"Nothing, just..." he glanced over at the office where John was still on the phone and lowered his voice. "It's not too late to change them for something with a bit more _style_ perhaps...?" the tailor suggested with a leading air of conspiracy.

Dean scowled fiercely and opened his mouth.

The tailor held up a hand to forestall Dean's impending comment. "Let me guess. 'No pizzazz'."

Dean closed his mouth and nodded.

He sighed. "You are indeed your father's son, Ludlow."

"Yes sir." Dean tried to ignore Sam who had resumed his position by the change room doors, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, snickering and drinking his soda.

"Well, we'll just do what we can with 'boring' then, shall we?" The man stood back and hummed in apparent contemplation of Dean's navel. "No pleats, I think."

"God, no! No pleats!" said Dean, thinking of cheerleader's skirts with a horror he rarely associated with cheerleaders.

"No, definitely not. We don't want to look like a stick-insect do we?" He patted Dean's flat abdomen. Sam choked on his drink again.

"These pants are fine the way they are," Dean grumbled, starting to cross his arms until a pin in the sleeve cuff jabbed him. He dropped his arms and resumed standing straight, staring directly ahead and not looking at Sam.

The tailor pursed his lips in vexation. "Fine, fine... but they _are_ too long in the leg, that'll have to come off." The man knelt on the floor, reached between Dean's thighs, grabbed the fabric of the pant leg and hoisted.

"Hey!" Dean squeaked.

"See, there's about where it should hang. Two inches shorter in the leg, Janice."

Across the room, Janice's big hair bobbed again as she made notes.

Sam smirked while Dean twitched as the tailor made chalk marks and stuck pins around his ankles.

-

An endless half-hour later, Dean put on a pair of sunglasses and held his hands out to the sides. "Well?"

Sam looked his brother up and down, appraising the effect of the dark blue suit, off-white shirt and blue pin-striped tie with the sunglasses.

"You look like the Terminator."

"Seriously?" Dean said, brightening.

Sam smirked. "If he was going to a funeral for his maiden aunt."

Dean let his hands drop. "Dammit, Sam, I look like an idiot!" He took the sunglasses off, looked over to where John was settling up at the counter, and lowered his voice to a tense whisper. "I mean, all joking aside, this is for a _gig_. I don't want to screw it up for Dad 'cause I look stupid in a frigging suit."

Sam tilted his head slightly and looked at his brother. The corners of Dean's eyes were pinched, and his mouth was set in a distressed line. _Hunh._ Sam looked down at the bottle in his hand and swirled the last of his soda around in the bottom. "...well..." he said after some consideration, "I mean, not that my opinion isn't _the_ most important thing in the known universe-"

Dean snorted, still watching John across the room.

"-but, uh... just 'cause I think the suit looks weird on you doesn't mean a bunch of government bozos who've never met you will think it looks weird."

Dean turned back to face Sam. "But you think it looks weird, right?"

"Well, because I've never seen you wearing a suit before." Sam shrugged. "You just aren't a suit kind of guy."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, _really?_"

Sam smirked and continued. "But see, neither is Dad, really. Or Caleb. They pull it off, and you will too."

Dean twitched uncomfortably. "Yeah, I guess. I'm never wearing another damned suit after this though."

"I dunno, Dean," Sam said with a grin. "The way Dad was talking, he's expecting you to have that suit for _years_. He'll probably tap you before Caleb for government gigs from now on."

"This blows, man," said Dean, tugging at his sleeves. "I hate this damn thing."

"Yep. Too bad that suit's gonna last you a loooong while," Sam stretched to his full height, same as his older brother's and showing no signs of slowing, "You know, since you've stopped growing and all. It'll probably be _years_ before it wears out."

Dean swatted Sam and put the sunglasses back on. "Terminator, hunh?"

"A Terminator that works for the FBI," Sam amended, nodding.

Dean nodded back. "Okay, I guess I can live with that." He looked at himself in the mirror and wiggled the knot of his tie. "I still hate the damn thing."

-

At the sound of a key in the hotel room door late that afternoon, Sam closed his textbook, turned off the TV in the bedroom and sat up.

In the other room, John entered in mid-sentence. "-just don't touch anything. And don't move too fast or you'll drip."

_Drip?_ Sam stood and peered into the other room of the suite.

Dean sidled through the door and stood inside the doorway. The front of the white shirt had a large red splatter on it that would have been extremely alarming if Dean wasn't obviously not hurt, and if the red splatter wasn't accompanied by equally large pink, purple and yellow splatters, and the smell of a buffet table. Dean held the suit-jacket in front of himself, also oozing a wild assortment of colored goop.

"Straight through to the bathroom, Dean," John ordered with a surprisingly cheerful air.

"Yes sir."

"What happened?" Sam asked, watching Dean's careful progress through the room.

"Sam, run some water in the tub and throw in some laundry soap. Dean, uh..." John looked at his colorfully dripping son, standing in the bathroom doorway. "Just try and get the worst of it off, okay dude? Don't worry too much about it, we-" John's dour expression cracked into a micro-second smirk, but then he covered his mouth and coughed. "Uh, I'm gonna go make some calls," John rumbled, heading back out into the hall.

"Dude! What happened?" said Sam, grabbing the jar of laundry soap from a duffel bag and following Dean into the bathroom.

"We got it."

Sam looked his brother up and down. "Yeah, so I see."

"No, no, the thing that was killing people. We got it," said Dean, dropping the suit jacket into the tub with a splat.

"And it exploded?" Sam shook some laundry detergent over the noisome jacket dubiously.

Dean shot Sam a sour look and began to pull off the splattered tie. "We got into the building fine, went through the place top to bottom? Nothing, not even any cold spots. Then while Dad was talking to this one guy and I was hanging out by the file room in case I could pick something up there, I heard the file clerks making lunch plans and it turns out there's this one restaurant where most of the employees go."

Sam plugged the bathtub and started running the water. "You mean you were flirting with one of the file clerks and she invited you to lunch."

"Well, yeah!" Dean smirked, dropping the tie into the tub with the jacket. "It was for a job!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "So, what, did you fall into the salad bar or something?"

"Ha ha. Turns out the victims had _all_ eaten at that same restaurant within a day of having their 'accidents'. Dad and me went there this afternoon. It's some kind of 'world cuisine' high-end joint that charges nineteen bucks for," he pointed at the pinkish splotch on his shirt, neatly bisected by the outline of the now-removed tie, "meat-flavored Jello crap and crackers on a lettuce leaf. Really popular with the government suit and tie bunch."

"So how does a fancy restaurant kill people?"

"The original owner of the restaurant died in some kind of kitchen accident last year, a real high-strung guy according to the waiter. Had a real temper on him, went nuts anytime someone complained about the food, or asked for salt, or wanted to have something, y'know, _normal_ for lunch."

"How'd you know he was even there?"

Dean grinned and carefully shrugged. "I, uh... I asked the waiter for a bacon cheeseburger with fries and ketchup."

Sam grimaced. "Ah."

"Yeah. Casper went friggin' _berserk_, right there in the restaurant. He totally went poltergeist on us. Lights flashing, crap flying around and everything. There weren't many people in the place so me and Dad boxed him in the kitchen. Shut him up for now, but we'll find where he's buried and salt and burn his deep-fried ass tonight."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "And you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Just asking 'cause, ya know, you look like crap."

Dean's shirt dripped on the bathroom tile. "Shaddap. We got him. He was pretty tame, actually, didn't let loose with the heavy artillery, the knives and things, just sauces and gooey stuff. Dad was looking up something in the journal for containing an angry spirit temporarily, so while he had the book out I-" He mimicking holding the suit jacket out in a 'Batman' stance, "-covered him." Dean grinned.

"Totally unavoidable," said Sam, nodding. "Had to be done."

"Yeah, after all the fuss about the suit, I thought Dad would be freaking about it, but I guess he was just glad to get this case over with."

"And you aren't hurt."

"Nope."

"So since you aren't hurt, what's that?" said Sam, pointing at the chunky red splatter on the considerably more than off-white shirt.

Dean looked down at himself. "I think it's called 'Sun-dried tomato coulis'? Like ketchup for snooty people."

"And the purple stuff?"

"Some kinda blueberry gravy, I think?"

"And that yellow goo?"

"Ha! Curried eel pate!"

Sam grinned. "Figure the suit's salvageable?"

Dean pulled a handful of buckwheat pasta out of his hair, dropped it in the trash and grinned back. "I hope not."

- - -  
(that's it!)


End file.
